“Clean what?” Vin knelt down and ran his hands around the fake wood flooring. “There’s nothing here.”

“It’s right—”

Eddie caught Jim’s arm and shook his head, then started opening bags. He handed both Vin and Marie-Terese a container of Morton salt. “You guys are going to pour a line around the perimeter of the upstairs. It needs to be an unbroken barrier, except for that window.” He nodded over to the right. “Leave that clear. If there is furniture in the way, it’s okay—just go around it and then back against the wall. There’s more in these bags if you need it.”

When he seemed satisfied by how they were handling things, he took out a pair of stogies from inside his jacket and gave one of them along with some salt to Jim. “You and I are going to do the same and a little more downstairs.”

“Roger that.”

When they were back on the first floor, Eddie took out a black Bic lighter and fired his Cuban or whatever it was up. As he exhaled something that smelled like…clean ocean air, he offered the flame and Jim bent at the waist and lit his own. One inhale and he was in Heaven. The tobacco tasted amazing, like nothing he’d ever had in his mouth before, and if this was going to be part of his ongoing duties, he was so on board.

Man, he’d liked smoking. And evidently all that cancer concern was off his list now.

Eddie pocketed his lighter and popped open his salt. “We’re going to go from room to room and exhale while we make a barrier down here. We’re purifying the environment and creating an obstacle for her. There’s more Morton’s in that bag.”

Jim glanced down at his umbrella girl. “Is this really going to keep Devina out?”

“It’ll make it harder for her to get in. Adrian’s going to keep her busy for as long as he can, but even with his considerable talents, she’s going to know something is up.”

As Jim cracked the seal on his salt, he realized he liked the way he felt. For better or for worse—well, mostly worse—he was built to fight, and not just because he was a heavyweight motherfucker. Conflict was in his blood and his brain and his beating heart.

He’d missed being on missions.

Angling the Morton container downward, he happily smoked away as a thin white river poured out of the silver spout and onto the shitty carpet. Eddie was handling the back of the house, going down the hall and into the kitchen, so Jim headed for the living room. It was fast work, following along the baseboard while pushing dusty curtains out of the way, and it was satisfying: He felt as if he were pissing on his own territory, staking a claim.